


Shapes and Forms

by narsus



Category: Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Attempted Seduction, M/M, Manipulation, Post-Game(s), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: Subtle plans call for a subtle form. After all, the Slayer was surely human enough to be manipulated.
Relationships: Doom Slayer | Doomguy/Samuel Hayden
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	Shapes and Forms

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Doom Eternal belongs to id Software, Bethesda Softworks and others.

He had worn many shapes, claimed many names. Far more than the two that the Slayer was familiar with. Before there was Doctor Samuel Hayden, before… well, perhaps in between there being a Samur Maykr, certainly before anyone had called him a seraphim… Especially since technically, insufferably, he’d always been keen to point out that the singular was actually ‘seraph’. It was easy to lose his train of thought there because he suddenly found that he wanted to delve down into ancient myth and make snide comments about what would and would not be considered holy. Because ‘Maykr’ was not a term that could fit into the human construction of Linnaean binomial nomenclature. Because… because he was ornery at the best of times.

Samuel Hayden the human, brain cancer or otherwise, had been a small snappish thing. Five foot, six inches of scientific genius, vision and vitriol. He’d heard mention that he could have been considered handsome in a fey sort of way. Small, pale, blond hair almost white, slim-fingered and almost delicate in frame. Certainly, he’d been something to be looked at by humans, at least at first. Though there was something about the eyes they’d said, something not quite… right. Something about that face that was more like a decorative theatrical mask than a face at all. After they’d noticed that they’d tended not to look so closely anymore.

Human skin had not been his favourite armour to wear. It had been far too malleable and fragile. Nothing like Maykr armour or even organic Maykr skin. Still, it had had its uses. Uses aplenty until he’d found a better form. He’d honestly enjoyed being almost ten foot tall. It had given him a whole new perspective and if it might have been a suitable height for a Khan then, as he would have argued, that was purely coincidental. He missed that form. That tall, cold, unrelenting shape. Similar in some ways to his original form and yet different enough to be novel. Did he miss tentacles instead of legs? He wasn’t sure about that. He’d enjoyed walking, feeling himself connected to the ground, rather than simply hovering above it, unable to settle.

That metal chassis had been quite robust despite being thrown around by the Slayer and others. He could have remade it. Perfected that form and moulded new limbs for himself from something harder than steel, something that even the Slayer would have struggled to shatter. It would have made sense to revert to that form and stride around as he’d done before. Except... subtle plans called for subtle forms. Form. A form that would have him peer up at the Slayer’s face and would look diminutively slight in comparison to almost twenty-six stone of pure muscle.

Now, in this new version of an old shape, he just about came up to the Slayer’s shoulder. The Slayer could circle both his wrists with one hand. Had done so in some annoyance at first. He’d turned his face to hide the smirk at the already blossoming bruises on his almost translucent skin. He hadn’t needed to look at the Slayer to understand the creak of armour or catch of breath that betrayed the human. Was the Slayer human anymore? The thought had distracted him. Perhaps. Slightly. Enough to be manipulated. Which was of course what a Maykr did best.

So now, wandering the halls of the fortress, swathed in an approximation of white Maykr robes, he had made himself a nuisance, perhaps even a hazard, stepping across polished stone with bare human feet. Made a game of it that had had the Slayer pushing mechanical parts and wires out of his way as he passed. He made a point to drift past the Slayer, almost close enough to touch, as frequently as could plausibly be excused. It was far more entertaining than he’d ever expected it to be. Wobbling past the Slayer’s work bench while the man tended to his weapons was the height of amusement as the Slayer watched him carefully so that he wouldn’t trip on some non-existent obstacle.

“I don’t believe that I am used to these human legs.” He’d announced on one pass.

The Slayer had grunted in response.

“I wonder….”

And then he’d let himself fall. Knees bending suddenly, whole body tilting backwards, one hand raised as if to reach out to whatever might be there to save him. All in all it had been quite an artistic movement; perhaps one day someone might incorporate it into a ballet. Of course he’d never hit the floor. The Slayer had swooped in to catch him so that his raised hand had rested against a broad shoulder.

“I am perhaps a little unsteady.”

For a moment they’d remained in an odd tableau; smaller human form stretched out at a forty-five degree angle to the floor, held easily, for the moment, in the un-gauntleted hands of a hulking beast. Then the Slayer had snorted and swept Samuel up into his arms and in a few quick strides had crossed the room and deposited him on the bed.

“Oh! I…”

He’d fluttered pale blond lashes and somehow, inexplicably, had managed to ruche white robes up to reveal pale thighs in his tumble down onto the bed.

“Stay.”

The Slayer’s gravelly voice had been a surprise. A voice little used to the point where he’d honestly wondered if perhaps the Slayer was actually mute. Then the Slayer had simply returned to his workbench.

When it had become clear that the Slayer was going to continue fiddling with his weapons and not engage in ravishing anything anytime soon he’d let himself flop back against the bed. This was fine. He could wait. He could make good use of the time to more carefully construct his plan. Two could play at this game after all, and when the Slayer did finally finish with his work he was going to find enticingly arranged limbs, drowsily closed eyes and parted lips emitting the sort of soft little sounds that invited investigation.

After all, the Slayer was surely human enough to be manipulated. Which was of course what a Maykr did best of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahoy, Imperial measures for weights and height. Assuming the Doom Slayer is 6ft 9in and 360 lbs by this point.


End file.
